I’ve become a devout believer in doing absolutely nothing productive on days off, and today I’ve followed through with gusto. I’m wandering around the French Quarter in a preposterously oversized Hawaiian shirt, rapturously slurping the brains out of shrimp heads in between rounds of Tiki drinks (check out Beach Bum Berry’s Latitude 29, best Piña Colada of my life). Touring is physically and emotionally taxing, and I’ve learned to trust the restorative powers of buffoonery - thankfully, I’m among kindred spirits.

New Orleans is rough, dirty, and fiercely proud, with much of the good stuff hidden down nondescript alleyways and behind shuttered windows, unwelcoming without the right guide. And, of course, here I am, dressed like an ass, day drinking with the mid-western horde. But it’s a much needed day off, spirits are high, and sometimes you gotta eat your weight in hushpuppies and wash ‘em down with ironic cocktails. Sue me.